


Headlong into the irresistible orbit

by gloss



Series: Cure for Pain [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Bildungsporno, Blow Jobs, Compromised Consent, Cunnilingus, Double Penetration, Fucked-Up Love Story, Group Sex, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex Work, M/M, Mind controlled sex, Multi, Porn With Sads In, Porn with Feelings, Pre-TFA, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Work, Xenophilia, cuddling for warmth, sex under the influence, some Poe/Han/Leia, some Poe/Lando/Han, some Poe/alien(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 02:59:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6220903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poe's a spaceport hustler; Han's back to doing the only thing he was ever good at. When they meet up, <i>someone</i> should probably have a bad feeling about this.</p><p>Or: How they get from there to here.</p><hr/><p>Please note CNTW and other tags: there are consent issues all over this, in various forms, from undernegotiated sex work to telepathic aliens to Lando's personal stock of euphoric party drugs.</p><p>This takes place before TFA, and is compliant with film canon, but it offers its own backstory and does not refer to various tie-in materials.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Headlong into the irresistible orbit

**Author's Note:**

> This wouldn't ever have been finished, let alone decent, without the amazing work of [aphrodite_mine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aphrodite_mine). I can't thank her enough, and of course all remaining shittiness is my own fault.
> 
> Title from Morphine, "[Let's Take a Trip Together](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XWKYxhyKja4#)".

"Kid, you don't want to do this, believe me." The old pirate needs a good shave and haircut, a few baths, some freshly laundered clothes. Poe buys him a drink anyway. The guy is handsome beneath the scruff and exhaustion; he's also the captain of a halfway decent freighter. Poe's been hanging around this spaceport too long for comfort. He needs to get back in the air.

"No, it's my pleasure." Poe pushes the drink he just refused against his hand. "Starved for company here."

He glances sharply at Poe. Evaluation, sizing up, happens in half a moment. What he sees is a skinny kid, none too tall, a little gangly in that way that says he'll grow into his looks. Big nose, smart mouth, great hair. Unthreatening.

Poe knows all this because it's in his best interests to have a handle on what he presents, what he gives away, and what he keeps for himself.

The spacer raises his cup, studying it. "You don't say."

"I do," Poe says, knocking their cups together. They drink down in tandem.

Spacer buys the next round, and the one after that. By then, he's a little flushed, even more disheveled, and he's got his arm around Poe's shoulders. They're swaying in time to the tinny holo-music.

"What's your name?" Poe asks after closing time. The spacer's jacket is over his shoulders against the cold of second night. They are headed for the docking area, stumbling in the dark, trying too hard to keep quiet since it's long past curfew.

They flatten themselves against the outer wall as a security droid trundles past.

"Han," the spacer says, his arm across Poe's chest to keep him still. When the droid is gone and the coast is clear, his arm is still there, and Poe's wiggling around to face him.

"I'm Poe," he says.

"I didn't ask."

They face each other. There isn't much to this, just Poe's hand on Han's chest, an interrogative tilt of the head, a flash of a weary, knowing smile from Han. Anything could happen, millions of possibilities are just waiting to play out, it's an endless horizon.

"Sorry," Poe says, and, cutting off every possibility but a few, "let me make it up to you."

Han's smile deepens, widens, becomes actually pleased rather than a reference to pleasure. "Give it a try, kiddo. I won't stop you."

His hand pushes through Poe's hair as they kiss, fingers twisting against the curls and waves. Holding Poe there, or maybe himself. He kisses every bit as hard as Poe expected, deep and insistent, pushing his whole body into it.

"Got a place?" Han asks, breathing hard.

Poe tightens his grasp on Han's shirt, the fabric bunching, warm skin and soft hair underneath. "Your ship's closer."

Eyebrow cocked, Han seems to consider asking something, then thinks better of it. "Come on, then, I'm not getting any younger."

His freighter is a hulking mess, patchworked with several generations of repairs of widely varying quality. Her name used to be _Momma's Pride_ but now it's the _Jaina_. It's safe from the security droids and he's pushing Poe up the gangplank ahead of him, big hands on Poe's waist, thumbs just on his ass.

"Nice ship," Poe says.

Han laughs. He doesn't sound all that amused. "She's a bucket of Qormot shit."

"Whatever it takes to get up there." Poe's about to elaborate, but Han pushes him harder, urging him down the passageway cluttered with half-opened cargo. 

They stumble into a narrow bunkroom. Poe moves silently; he's accustomed to keeping as quiet as possible in these situations. But Han fumbles on the wall lights and curses loudly when he collides with yet another crate. 

The room is empty. It doesn't look like anyone's slept here for several cycles.

"Nothing to look at," Han says, sinking down next to Poe on the nearest bunk. "What's so interesting?"

"Nothing." Poe shifts a little, facing Han, reaching to touch his chest again. He strokes the rough hair of his beard, traces the silver running through brown. "You."

Han laughs at him, and this time the sound is low and kind of mean. 

"Nice try," he says, and his hands are on Poe's waist again, hauling him over his lap. Han reclines, Poe kneeling across his thighs, and Han pulls him down, kissing him, cupping his ass again. Much more firmly now, even as his breathing goes rougher and rougher. 

He _really_ likes to kiss. Poe can work with that. He drops his weight to grind against Han, slow as he can make it, but rough. After a good long hard tease, he breaks the kiss to slip down, all the way down, until he's kneeling on the floor and opening Han's trousers.

Han's up on one elbow. "Kid, really, don't feel like you have to --"

Poe tilts his head, acting more perplexed than he is, and wraps his arms around Han's thighs to pull himself in and down his cock.

"Have it your way." His head thumps back. 

Han's sweaty, soaked with space-stink, and probably far needier than he'd admit. He doesn't last long, and that's not just because Poe knows exactly what he's doing. Near the end, Han is sitting up again, one hand on Poe's head, holding him still by the ear and chunks of hair so he can thrust more deeply and finish off.

After swallowing, Poe waits a respectable interval before looking up. 

To his surprise, Han's looking down at him, expression soft despite the sweat and scruff. He brushes a lock of hair off Poe's forehead and opens his mouth, about to say something, then doesn't.

"Okay if I crash here --" Poe starts to ask.

"You need a hand?" Han asks at the same time.

They both stop and wait for the other to go on. Poe sits back on his heels, but that means he's out of reach. Something about that doesn't feel quite right.

"Ah, fuck, kid. Get up here," Han says finally, offering him a hand, pulling him to his feet and then over. Poe lands half atop him, half off the bunk, and Han laughs, rolling him over onto his side, reaching for Poe's crotch.

"No," Poe says automatically. "I'm good, you don't have to --"

"Yeah," Han replies, almost earnestly. "I do."

He's kissing Poe again, shallow and warm, easy and affectionate, as he jerks him off. His hand is nice and big, calloused but not enough to hurt. Poe loses track of himself a little near the end, clutching at Han's sleeve, bucking into his hand, making the kind of noise he usually only makes when he's alone.

"There you go," Han says when he's finished. With his other hand, he rubs Poe's back a couple times. "Get some sleep, buddy. Look like you could use it."

"Yeah." Poe yawns, hugely, his jaw cracking. He lost something, tension or worry, just now. All he's left with is overwhelming tiredness.

Han pats his leg as he gets up; after a moment or two, he drops a musty-smelling blanket by Poe's side.

Poe doesn't even hear him leave. 

The next thing he's conscious of is the echoing sound of Han's off-tune singing, a long way away, accompanied by clanks and bangs. 

Poe wraps the blanket around his shoulders and pads down the passage, following the noise until he finds Han in the galley. He's wearing the same clothes as last night, but he is shaven and his hair is wet and combed back.

"Still here?" he asks when he notices Poe.

Right, Poe probably should have faded away. That's how you do it, how he always does it should he manage to sleep over. He doesn't know what he was thinking. He scrubs one hand up through his hair. "Passed out."

"Eat up, then," Han says, pushing a container across the counter with the back of his spatula. "Plenty to go around these days."

It's just simple Hosnian porridge, studded with dried fruits that Poe's never tasted before, but he's ravenous.

"How much?" Han asks when Poe takes a break to drink down some tea.

"How much for what?"

Han chuckles. "Either you're playing dumb, which is a stupid waste of time, or you really are that naive, which is upsetting on any number of levels. How much for last night? I'm assuming, given your presence here, that I owe you...something."

Poe swallows hard and pokes at the dregs of his porridge. "No, it's --. It's not like that."

"So what is it like?"

"What do you mean, naive is upsetting?"

Han rubs both hands over his face and sighs. "That would take a very long, highly uncomfortable time to explain, kiddo. Why don't you just tell me what you want and we'll get to haggling. What do you want?"

"I want a ship," Poe says. It just comes out.

Han looks at him for a long time. His expression is unreadable, until he finally throws his head back and laughs. "Kid, you're good, I'll give you that. But no one's _that_ good."

"I meant --"

"Credit for opening high, though," Han continues. He narrows his eyes and looks Poe over. "You _are_ a port punk, right?"

Poe can't help but mutter. "When I have to be."

"Yeah, okay." He doesn't give Poe any of that fake-concern or condescension, which is a relief. But he also doesn't push for more, which, for some reason, _isn't_.

"See, I'm trying to get --" 

Han thumps the table with his fist, then winces at the resulting clatter. "I'm not your father. You don't have to explain yourself to me."

"Oh." Poe looks down at his empty bowl. "All right."

"You want a ship, huh? What would you even do with one?"

"I can fly," Poe says, his voice rising despite himself. He coughs. "I'm a good pilot. I just need a ship."

"That's the eternal struggle," Han says. "All right. What about the academy?"

Scowling, Poe shrugs and plucks at the loose threads on the blanket. "I want to fly, not go to _school_."

"Fair enough. I hear the First Order's always looking for pilots."

At the name, Poe spits. He sits back in his chair, arms crossed.

"Not a First Order man, then," Han says, amused. "Can't blame you. So that leaves you, what? Sucking cock to pass the time and hoping someone just happens to leave a nice starfighter unlocked?"

"Sometimes I load cargo," Poe points out. "And I do women. Xeno, any sentient, too. Not just cock."

"Well, well, la-di-da," Han says. He's on his feet, clapping Poe on the shoulder, shaking him, pulling him up into a one-armed hug. Poe stumbles into the embrace, grinning against Han's side when Han kisses the top of his head. He's just indulging someone he sees as a mouthy kid, Poe knows that, but he can't bring himself to care. "A man of many talents and broad tastes. I like it."

»«

He gives Poe a job. For lack of anything better, they call it boatswain's mate. Han already has a first mate, some Wookiee who's currently off on a spiritual pilgrimage. And while Han claims he doesn't stand on ceremony, they do need a title for Poe's position for port documents and tariffs forms when Han bothers to file them. 

Poe does whatever needs doing. Sometimes, he's gunner when they run across hostile types, wanna-be pirates or vigilantes. He oversees the cargo inventory (Han has no system in place and less than no idea about what he's already carrying) and performs light maintenance, along with half the cooking.

He isn't flying very much, except on subluminal runs when Han needs to sleep, but at least he isn't planetbound any longer. He is _in flight_ , which is an improvement, if not quite his goal. 

Honestly, Poe's main job seems to be to keep Han company. He's a drinking buddy, someone to talk to during the long, boring, hard work of hauling iffy cargo across the thick part of a galactic arm, a new audience for stories that might have been told a thousand times already, back-up in the scuffles that Han seems to attract like Naboovian orchid sap attracts boglings. Wherever they land, in any dusty cantina or slick urban saloon, there is an equal chance that someone there will want to kill Han or kiss him. Less frequently, but not impossibly, both.

»«

Once, when Poe goes to the port authority to file for haul permits, the Twi'lek clerk looks him up and down. His headtails twitch appreciatively. "Solo's peg boy," he says as he hands the datapad back for Poe's signature. "Heard he doesn't let you out of his sight."

Han has been having comm-link problems and went into the city centre to make the contacts he'd been neglecting. Poe scrawls his name and drops the datapad on the counter between them. "I think you heard wrong."

The Twi'lek scratches his cheek with the tip of one tentacle. "I don't think so."

Poe draws himself up, ready to fight. He doesn't mind his reputation (it's true, after all, and as Han says, you're lucky if the gossip about you contains just a few grains of truth), but Han...Han isn't like that.

Poe's known more than enough people like that. Han isn't one of them.

"Speak of the demon," the Twi'lek says, grinning now. "Captain Solo, how delightful."

"Hey, kid," Han says, briefly, joining Poe. He looks back and forth between them, sizing up this particular situation as quickly and accurately as he does all of them. "This bastard giving you trouble?" He leans on the counter, tilting his head, giving the Twi'lek his slow, sultry smile. "Melk, honey, you know we'd never work out." He strokes the nearer tentacle, trying to close his hand around the tip and shrugging apologetically when he fails. "You're just too much man for me."

Poe swallows his laughter. Those headtails are beyond sensitive; Melk's either going to kill Han or give him everything he ever wanted. 

After a good long glare at Han, tentacle twitching, Melk snatches back the datapad and punches in some changes. Before Poe can quite understand what's happening, Han's slinging his arm around Poe's shoulders and nearly skipping back out to the _Jaina_ with priority clearance for several more kilotonnes than they had requested.

It can't simply be the elation over that small victory that lightens Han's steps, makes his laugh louder, gestures broader, but Poe will take it. There's half a diurnal cycle left before they depart, plenty of time to load cargo and even eat one last hot meal. But Poe doesn't even have a chance to ask what Han might want to eat before Han's shouldering against the bulkhead, hands on Poe's wrists, pinning him there, kissing him so hard that small black spots start to swim before Poe's vision.

"What's wrong?" Poe asks as Han tugs up his shirt, sinks down on his bad knee, presses his mouth down the center of Poe's chest. It's hot and shiver-inducing and for several moments all Poe can do is wrap his arms around Han's head and hold him there.

"Nothing," Han says eventually, grunting in annoyance when he can't get Poe's trousers open. "Why would anything be wrong? Do I need an _excuse_ now to enjoy your..." He breaks off, head bowed, when the fastener finally springs free. "Charms?"

"No, no, of course not," and then Poe can't say much more, because Han doesn't do this often, but when he does, it's overwhelming. Poe locks his knees, drops his stance a little, ass coming away from the wall so Han can grab him there and push him all the way in, and down.

»«

The man's mouth can work all kinds of magic, verbal and not.

Poe can talk his way out of a lot of sticky situations. He's made it this far, after all, relatively intact. But Han is something else entirely. They "misplace" a load of Octusi pelts when they get a better deal from a gang of Mandalorian middlemen; the Pyn'gani cartel that had contracted with Han for the pelts in the first place takes exception.

"Nothing to be done," Han says a little too loudly, smiling too broadly, as he tries to back away. "Better luck next time, right? You better believe I'll be improving my inventory tracking and logistics!"

"Unforgivable," the head of the cartel says. Three goons cut off the only exit, bringing Han, then Poe, up short. When they turn around, another five goons surround them. "We will not tolerate being treated so callously."

To make their point, the Pyn'gani string them up by an ankle each over a yawning vent to the frozen sea. The slush surges and roils less than half a meter from their heads; occasionally an ice worm breaches, screaming through row after row of jagged teeth. 

And from there, while Poe's twisting in the breeze and half a heartbeat away from pissing his nice new trousers (purchased in downtown Coruscant with his first pay cred-stick), Han talks, and talks, and takes a blaster shot to his upper arm, and keeps talking. His lips blanch white-blue, frosted around the edges, and still he talks, offering new side-deals, explanation upon explanation salted with complicated justification, new and better targets than little old him for the cartel's wrath.

They're back on their feet, dizzy and terrified, with an empty cargo hold but still all their limbs and organs, when Han has finished.

"Lucky about the cold," Poe says when they're well out of the sector and floating dark. He's forced Han to sit on his bunk and show him the blaster wound. It's bright red and raw, painfully so, but clean. "Probably killed most of the nasties that'd be flocking here otherwise."

Han scowls and hisses when Poe swipes the wound with disinfectant. 

"Easy," Poe tells him. "Just a precaution."

Han rolls his eyes. He's still shivering, goosebumps up his chest, down both arms.

"Hate the cold. Hate those fucking bastards and their ice and carbon freezing tech. And the cold. Hate it."

Poe smiles a little at the sullen bitterness in Han's voice as he snaps open a bacta patch and presses it down over the wound.

Han jumps about a meter. "Warn a guy!"

"But then you'd tense up and argue my ear off and try to get out of it," Poe says.

"Yeah, well." Han shrugs his shirt back on, but leaves it open. The scars on his chest stand out oddly in the half-light of the cabin, the same dead-ish white as the ice worm's hide. "That's the wounded's prerogative."

"Along with complaining worse than a Hutt missing a meal?"

Han cuts him a glance. "Yes, as a matter of fact."

He still looks cold, now that Poe's putting away the medikit and can see him better. There's a frosty gray cast to his skin and he's hunched a little, like he's lost in a blizzard, moving against the wind.

"You want something to drink?" Poe asks. "You look cold."

"I _am_ cold," Han snaps. His arms are crossed and he hunches into himself even more. "What do you think I've been saying?"

Poe pulls off the woollen jersey he bought when they'd booked the Polus job and hands it to Han. "Put this on."

"Thanks, kid, but it's really not my style."

"Funny," Poe says, and takes down the reacto-kettle to brew soup. "Put it on."

Grumbling, Han complies. He also accepts the blanket that Poe wraps around his waist and drinks three servings of soup without much further complaint. All that, but he still doesn't look much better afterward, if at all.

Poe is about ten minues from searching the navcomputer for the nearest inhabited moon so he can buy warmer clothes when Han reaches for him and pulls him onto his lap. His cheek is cold against the back of Poe's neck; his palms barely warmer even as they push under Poe's shirt, wrapping around his waist and holding on.

"This what you need?" Poe murmurs. He shivers when Han runs one hand up his chest, grazing his nipples. "You're _so_ cold."

"Felt colder," Han says. He sighs gustily into Poe's hair. "This is good. Better than a Tauntaun."

Poe wiggles until he can get under the blanket, too. Pulling it up to his armpits, tucking it under Han's legs, he says, "Tell me about the Tauntaun, then."

"Nah." Han's lips are cold and dry but his mouth warm on Poe's neck now. "Your turn. You tell me something. Tell me about a good client."

He usually prefers to hear stories about xeno; when Poe talks about humanoids, Han tends to check out, go a little distant and curt, though he would furiously deny this. Tantamount to accusing him of jealousy, it seems.

Han does not, indeed _can_ not, get jealous because, he would like Poe and everyone else to believe, he just doesn't care about anything but himself.

"Ever met a Krevaaki? Big bug-faced guys, tentacles for limbs?"

"Mm," Han says. He's still moving one palm up and down the center of Poe's chest, building warmth through friction. Poe shudders, not sure if he's ticklish, or turned on, or just chilled. 

"Nice guy," Poe continues. He twists a little at the waist and nudges Han down onto his side. Much as the lapsitting can be enjoyable, Han's got a bad knee and, anyway, the exhaustion from their ordeal is finally hitting Poe full-force. Facing Han, working one leg between Han's knees, he pulls the blanket all the way over their heads and leans back so Han can go back to petting his chest.

"Pay well?"

It's dark under here. He's pretty sure Han is warming up, but right now he feels far too overheated, claustrophobic and sweaty. Poe takes his time before he replies. _Of course_ the only way he can evaluate people is on how well they pay him, just like every greedy little port punk.

"Pay was decent," he says at last. "But those tentacles, man. _Whoa_."

Han kisses him then, laughing, closing his hand on the Poe's waistband and dragging him even closer. Poe reconsiders. The question's normal for Han, for any working person: you better get paid what you're worth, whatever you're doing.

"Better?" he asks.

Han hauls him closer until Poe's half-draped over him like another blanket. "Getting there. Tell me about the tentacles."

»«

In this time on the _Jaina_ , Poe figures he's talked more than in the rest of his life put together.

"What about you?" Han asks when he's finished telling the ribald tale of The Ewok Who Got Away (With His Heart). Poe's sides hurt from laughing. "What's the first xeno you ever did?"

"Willingly?"

"Hell, kid." Han scrubs both hands over his face. "Yes."

"Clawdite," Poe says promptly. Han makes a noise that's a little disgusted, a little impressed, and Poe shrugs. "Not as bad as you'd think, even in his real form."

»«

It's not always fun. It's not _bad_ \-- Poe has seen bad, and been stuck in worse, and this is nothing like that. Han gets into moods, simple as that, and those moods have a way of blowing up. They're not bad storms, but climatic, longlasting, something to be endured rather than escaped. Sullen silences, benders that last much longer than they ought to, shooting well past "awesome escapade" and into "deeply concerning for safety, his and others'" territory, pushing the shitty ship a little too hard, slamming controls, banking acute turns, just because he's in a terrible mood: if this is bad, then Poe needs to consider himself much luckier than he deserves.

But it is uncomfortable. And since Poe's job is, more than anything, companion, he is right here for all of it. He finds himself tensing against specific kinds of footfalls, the angry ones as well as the morose ones. Each one demands a different anticipatory tension from him: some drive him deep into the cargo hold to keep out of sight and busy, while others annoy him enough to make him stick around and mouth off, just to vent.

"I got this," Poe says when Han yanks hard enough on a motivator modulator switch that it snaps off in his hand. He's in the co-pilot's seat anyway, so he takes the controls. "Don't worry about it, just --"

"Just what?" Han narrows his eyes, his posture sharpening, chin jutting out. "You got all of this, huh? Don't even need the captain! No, sir! Steal my ship, wy don't you?"

"Go punch stuff, kick something, I don't care," Poe says. "Get it out of your system. I've got it up here."

Han's face twists, from grimace to smirk and then into something indescribable, but disgust-ridden and mean. Unrecognizable. "You think so, kid?"

"I know."

Poe turns away so he's facing the main viewport. He doesn't, quite, hold his breath, but it feels like he's frozen in the moment, waiting and hoping desperately for it to pass.

"Fine!" Han shouts, stomping out, somehow ensuring that he punches every rattling and clattering thing he can as he goes.

Afterwards, Han is always contrite, a little sulky, but sooner than later he tends to snap out of it. They don't mention it, ever.

The way Poe explains these episodes to himself is simple. It's none of his business, after all. Sure, he's trapped on the galaxy's saddest excuse for a space-going vessel with a man who sometimes looks like he'd just rather hit the airlock and blow them all into the cold black, but when you get down to it, it's none of his business what gets Han so mad, what drives these episodes of anger that, more than not, dissolve into soggy self-pity.

Poe's there for when Han feels better. Or wants to.

And when he does slide awkwardly into Poe's bunk afterward, he's quieter than usual, but just as insistent, if gentler, too. At least at first. Gentleness tends to give way to need, graceless rhythms of breath and hip that pound away at whatever mood had been gripping him. It's gone, scoured away by sweat and come, rubbed off and erased in bites and kisses, by the end of each encounter.

"You're a good man," Han whispers once, very late, long after they'd finished. He must think Poe's asleep. "Gonna miss you when you go."

Poe fakes a stretch and yawn, then flops over so he can face Han. "Not going anywhere. Unless you're firing me."

Han doesn't say anything. He straightens the blanket and turns his face away.

Poe decides that's a "no" on getting fired. For the time being, at least.

It's three hyperspace jumps later, as they're coming out of a cometary cloud, that Han says, "Everyone goes, sometime."

He could mean death, or be talking about the job, or something else entirely.

»«

In Gorno, they're supposed to pick up three crates of "organic matter" from their contacts, a pair of Sylphe males, Lierre and Bougain.

"No, no, no, deal's off --" Han's hands are up and he's shaking his head fiercely.

"What is it?" Poe asks. The Sylphe are about his height -- smaller than Han, and thinner than either of them -- and remarkably elegant, particularly against the backdrop of this ugly little port. They stand so close together, they might as well be entwined. The vegation springing from their heads is a riot of flowers, grasses and vines.

"Ask your captain," Lierre says. He's the slightly shorter one, bluer than his compatriot, with a sardonic lift to his eyebrows that's devastating.

Poe turns to Han. "So?"

"Organic matter, you said! Spice? Sure. Organ parts? Fine, probably, depending on how you pack them. But seeds? No, thank you. Even on this damn ship, I'm not carrying _those_."

"Yeah, maybe you can explain?" Poe asks Lierre. 

"They get loose, we're done for!" Han says. "Last thing I need, another sentient vegetable infestation --" He breaks off, waving hands. "No offense, boys."

"They're not germinated," Bougain puts in, sounding faintly amused. He may be smiling, but it's hard to tell.

"Su-u-re they're not," Han says. "Heard that one before, got the Zongorlu scars to prove otherwise."

"We need this shipment to arrive as soon as possible," Lierre says.

Poe spreads his arms, smiling at everyone. "I'm sure we can work something out."

"Triple the price," Han says, turning on his heel and stalking away. "We leave at dawn."

Poe knows he can salvage this. Not just because they could really use the credits, but because he'd hate to leave these two disappointed.

At that thought, something warms and blooms inside his mind: like clouds parting unexpectedly, a shaft of light finding just a single blossom and one lucky leaf.

The Sylphe have their heads tilted identically, looking at Poe. They nod when he wonders if they're telepathic. 

There are two bars in this port; the three of them retire to the one that Han had _not_ headed for. It turns out to be a good choice, alive with music, bustling with fairly non-deadly people.

"Negotiate later," Lierre says with that syrupy accent as the service droid brings their drinks. "Become friends first."

They have the last booth toward the back, right by the door to the back room. Couples, trios, solitary individuals pass in and out, occasionally bumping their table.

There's a mirror over the bar to the left of their booth. He spots Han at one point, hunched all the way at the far end of the bar. The next time he checks, someone else, flame-haired and far more squat, occupies the spot. 

"You two brothers or partners?" Poe asks. He frowns at the poor word choice. "Lovers, I mean."

"Yes," they say together. They don't understand the difference. He gets an image of two vines wrapped around each other, sharing the sun and rain. Even though it could be straight from an edu-holo, the image heats him from the inside out, loosens his posture. He imagines tendrils wrapped around his cock, probing his ears, his mouth, and the Sylphe hold him even closer.

"Oh," he says, sips his drink, and, "nice."

Their bark is softer than many humans' skin, but pliable in a specifically botanical way, not to mention cool. They might be able to split their arms into thinner vines, or perhaps he's just drunker than he'd planned, because he feels surrounded by the two of them, cradled, overgrown.

The next time the service droid click-clacks past, the Sylphe pay the entire tab. Poe digs into his pocket for credits or spare silicon for tip, but Lierre covers his hand with one leaf. "Please, it is our pleasure. We would like to make this worth your while."

The droid whirrs its advice to make use of the back room. 

"Way ahead of you," Poe tells it, finally finding a spare chip for it.

The room is dark, overly warm, heavy with the smell of various kinds of sex and sweat. 

The Sylphe half-carry, half-drag him into their undergrowth. Tiny leaves unfurl across his lips, down his throat; delicate tracery of tendrils dip under his shirt and pants.

Soon enough, Poe is still upright, but his feet are off the floor; the Sylphe hold him suspended before them, his arms and legs spread, clinging to them like the infant of some forest species. They've tangled together, their faces slipping and resurfacing, bursts of flowers and little clouds of spores going off whenever something especially pleases them. The little suckers on their leaves and vines pull at his skin, move his clothing aside, adhere with a slow, sleepy burn.

"Use your teeth," they tell him, or show him. 

They're long past speaking, but he can see clearly that they don't mind their bark getting torn, nor when he laps up the sap that oozes from the tear. The woody meat scrapes his tongue. He crushes a leaf in his teeth, the bright taste of it sharp and green. They shudder, hold him closer, vines as promised around tangling, sprouting, tightening around his cock, tickling around his ass, down his crack. They push insistently into his mouth until his jaw aches and breathing becomes challenging.

There's a silhouette in the doorway. It's been there for a while now, broad shoulders, shaggy head.

If he could think straight, Poe would have a name for that shape. It's familiar, or it used to be. But he's wrapped so tightly all he can name is _light_ and _gametophytes_ and the tingle-burn of vines binding him more and more tightly.

The Sylphe come, or grow bored with him, or weaken this long out of the sun. Something shifts in their attention, loosens their hold on his body and eases their hold on his mind. Eventually, aching, scratched and abraded, he's dropped to the floor.

Someone catches him by the elbow. The touch is human -- warm, not too tight -- and he has to shake his head to clear his thoughts before he can thank them.

"Three times our previously agreed-upon price is acceptable," the Sylphe say, then add, "many thanks for the use of your little one, Captain. There will be a little extra."

Poe sags against Han's side. When the Sylphe are gone, he coughs up a sticky mess of pollen and sap. He's still aroused, but woozy, not exactly sure where this leaves him. In general, with Han, all of it. "You saw?"

"Wouldn't've missed it," Han says, guiding him through the still-bustling bar, kissing the top of Poe's head. He stinks of wine and hoppy ale; Poe's not the only one stumbling over his own feet. "You done good, kiddo."

»«

A few hours later, deep into ship's night, Han shakes him awake. 

"What?" Poe asks thickly. He'd been sleeping where he fell, half across the bunk, still fully-clothed.

"Holonet says those Sylphes are hotbeds of allergens and cytotoxins. Need to check you out."

Poe's still not following. He aches all over and he can't see in the glare of the light.

Han pulls him up to a sitting position, warning him to stay awake, and gets out the medikit. 

"I'm _fine_ ," Poe says but strips off his shirt anyway. There are strange sucker burns and ropey welts wandering across his chest and down his back. Some of them itch. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. "Here, give me the kit."

Han stops in front of him, holding the kit in both hands. "I know what I'm doing."

"Didn't say you didn't," Poe says. He's cleaned himself up more times than he count; he's got it down almost to a science. "I just thought --"

"In fact," Han says a little more loudly, "I'd venture to say that I've been patching up wounds for longer than you've been breathing."

"Yeah, well," Poe replies. "You _are_ pretty old."

Shaking his head, Han sits down heavily beside him. "Quiet."

He works slowly, taking a lot more care than Poe would have expected. He checks each bruise and burn, swabs them, presses down bacta plasters on the angrier spots. He scrapes off sap splashes with his thumbnail, which tickles but feels like something else, like a tease. Poe is still woozy, and gets a little drowsier still under Han's light touches. Han turns him, this way and that, until most of the itchy burns are soothed and cooling. By the end, Poe is lying on his side so Han can check his waist and legs.

When Han nudges Poe's leg up, spreading his ass, Poe gets a clench, much hotter, more sudden, than any plant burn, deep in his chest, of shame. 

There's nothing to be embarrassed about. It's _Han_ , suddenly gentle and worried, that's embarrassing. Poe has to believe that.

But Han doesn't say anything. His touch goes even lighter, and maybe his breathing rattles, but soon enough Poe's dressed with plaster and anaesthetics. He's still curled up on his side, one arm over his eyes.

The light clatters off, then the medikit thunks on the floor. Poe exhales, ready to sleep again, but the warm, heavy weight of Han is suddenly there, behind him. With one arm over Poe's waist, stubbly chin against his shoulder, Han fits himself around Poe.

In a little bit, he may say, "Sleep, beauty," but that wouldn't make any sense.

»«

On Chandaar, a Korunnai bounty hunter is waiting for them. She is unarmed, supremely confident, sitting in the _Jaina_ 's cockpit when they return from meeting Han's contact in downtown Ambaril.

The blaster on Han's hip is levitating toward her before he can start to reach for it.

"Greetings," she says, smooth and half-amused. "No violence, please, it's just such a tiresome cliché."

Han gestures behind his back at Poe, shooing him away. The Korunnai holds up her hand and they are both frozen.

"No, the boy should stay, Captain Solo. In fact..."

She waves her hand, and Han makes a choking sound, his eyes bugging. Poe can move again, and pounds on his back.

"He's fine," she says. "I just don't feel like hearing his inane patter and tired banter."

"Oonph!" Han says.

Poe looks back and forth between them. He has heard of Korunnai, of course, though he's never had a chance to meet one. If she's anything to go by, they're every bit as beautiful as he's heard.

She holds herself almost regally, soft curls springing out from her skull and standing on end. Her eyes are large, almond-shaped, dark as good, bitter chicory beverage. The soft red shift she wears over old Republic-issue breeches catches and molds over her breasts.

"Thank you," she says, gesturing at Poe to take the co-pilot's seat. "That's very gallant of you, youngling. And, to answer your next question, no, I'm not a Jedi."

"Wrmf! Wrmf," Han puts in. 

She rolls her eyes, then looks over her shoulder to address Han. "Nor am I a witch, but that sort of slur is to be expected from you." She turns back to Poe. "Yes, it might be more efficient to communicate via thought, but then Captain Solo would feel left out, wouldn't he?"

Han nods furiously. "Nnnrgg!"

"What do you want?" Poe asks. He is sitting up as straight as he can, breathing slow and regular, working to stay calm. "What can we do for you?"

"There are four warrants out for Solo," she says. "Three in this system, another in the Abrion system. Now, that one might be dispensed with, given that the reward is almost insultingly low. But the three here are _most_ intriguing."

"How much?" Poe asks.

"Gllllggk," Han says, perhaps warningly. Or maybe he's agreeing. It's impossible to tell.

"He's not involved in this negotiation," she tells Poe. "Please, focus on me. The total is somewhere in the vicinity of 65,000 credits."

"Wrrff? Wrrff!"

"Well, you're not exactly the prize you used to be," she tells Han. "Most of this is bureaucratic budget wrangling. Lower level clerks trying to clean up old debts and unaddressed budget lines."

When she turns to face Poe, the gauzy panel around her neck slips over her breasts, catching on their rise. There's an expanse of exposed skin between her strong clavicle and her breasts that nearly _glows_.

"Again, thank you for your appreciation," she tells Poe. "But if you could just concentrate on the problem at hand."

"Yrppp," Han says and knocks Poe's shoulder.

"How does a Korunnai become a bounty hunter?" Poe asks. He's not embarrassed by her catching him; she's beautiful, and knows it, and he appreciates that sort of easy confidence. She nods gently at that thought. "If the stories are to be believed, your culture is all about honor."

"And this is not honorable? Retrieving those who refuse to pay debts, who flout regulations, who steal from the needy?"

"Hrrrp! Wmmffl!" Han kicks at the back of her seat. "Wmmffll!"

"All right," she tells Han. "Settle down. I didn't say _you_ were a thief. Merely that I retrieve that sort of person. And you do flee debts and laugh at regulations, don't deny that."

Han looks down and says softly, "Glpkg."

"He's an honorable man," Poe says firmly.

Han makes another choked sound, but it is barely audible over the Korunnai's peals of laughter. 

"Is that what he tells you? He's a better fabulist than I gave him credit for!"

"No. That's what I've seen. He's a good man in a hard business."

She's still laughing at him, but her eyes are grave, studying Poe's face. At least she can tell that he isn't lying.

"No, you believe what you say, that's true." She rubs her chin and crosses her legs. "That may be the case. The warrants, however, say otherwise."

"Who can you trust better?" Poe sits forward, hands clasped between his legs. He can smell the strong herbal scent she wears, see the stitching in the bright ribbon down the side of her breeches, admire the muscles in her thighs. She shifts slightly to meet his eyes, letting her scarf slip off her breasts. He raises an eyebrow, smiles, then continues, "Merchants and cops who are only interested in maximizing their profits? Or a free man, one who lives by his wits and talents?"

"And I suppose that Solo is this legendary hero of liberty and wit?"

"No." Poe sits back, feeling loose and warm. "I am."

"Interesting," she says. "You speak for his honor?"

"I do." He laces his fingers together across his chest. He doesn't dare glance at Han; if he does, he suspects this whole attempt will be over. "You know as well as I do, probably better, given your greater experience and intelligence --"

"All right," she says, circling her hand, "get on with it."

"Nng," Han says.

"You know as well as I do that the law is designed to protect property," Poe says, quickly, "not sentient beings. Has Han ever attacked anyone?"

"Rrrw." Han's tone is definitely warning now.

"Regardless," Poe continues quickly, "he's not a violent man, not intrinsically. No danger. He's never looked to hurt anyone, not for profit, definitely not for fun." He tilts his head and softens his tone now. "He's a good man. He doesn't deserve this."

He can feel Han beside him but keeps his eyes on the bounty hunter.

She's listening to him, he knows that much. He can't ask for anything more.

"It's no light thing, to speak for another's honor," she says at last. "But you seem to know that."

Poe nods.

"I will accept 50,000 credits," she adds.

"Wmmfll?!"

"We don't have that," Poe replies. Han bangs around the small cockpit, but Poe tries to maintain calm. "But you already know that. You searched the ship, didn't you?"

"And his various credit accounts," she admits. "To be frank, I don't know how you stay spaceborne."

"Luck," Poe says. "A lot of luck."

"Indeed." The smile she's giving him indicates pleasure in much more than good bargaining. He warms again, shifting in his seat to get a little more comfortable. "My expenses are not, however, incidental."

"Of course they aren't," Poe replies. "Why don't we say 15,000 now and we will make two -- no, three -- runs at your direction in the future?"

Han makes a muffled, but extended, noise of protest. Frowning, she waves her hand again and Han's mouth finally opens. He spews out a noise at the intersection of cough, retch, and shriek. All the words he had been trying to say are released at once.

"What's that?" she asks Han, though it's obvious she knows exactly what he means.

"No way, I don't have --" Han breaks off to cough into his fist.

"I have six," Poe says, rising to his feet, offering his hand to the bounty hunter. "I'm fairly sure Han can get the other nine together." 

Doubled over, Han looks up, expression equal parts bleak and deeply confused. "Kid, what do you think you're doing?"

"Taking the lady to transfer my credits," Poe says, not looking back, interlinking his arm with the Korunnai's. "I'll be back."

"What the hell?" Han calls after them. He sounds, if anything, forlorn. "Poe?"

Her name is Krey, she's half a head taller than he, and he spends the next day-cycle and a half in her lodgings. She tastes like trampled greens and windstorms. He's never fucked telekinetically, and it's a dizzying experience, rocking him in and out of his own mind and all around the room.

"Don't do that again," Han says when Poe returns, unshaven, sleep-deprived, highly pleased with himself.

"Save your ass?"

"Don't." Han doesn't turn around. "Just...don't. Don't stick your neck out for me."

"It's my neck," Poe says. "Think I get to say where I stick it."

»«

Han keeps to the Outer Rim, rarely straying near even the mid-regions, let alone the Core Worlds. But when four of the _Jaina_ 's six main cargo buckles snaps free over the course of a particularly rocky run past Cyrillia, Han has no choice but to head planetward.

The port authority directs them to an inner berth, far from the mechanics and salvage heaps, tucked right between the luxury yachts and pleasure cruisers. 

"This isn't good," Han says as they descend the gangplank. "I don't like this one bit."

Poe looks around at the hustle and bustle, beautiful people of several species in clothes finer than he's ever seen, even in holo-dramas, gleaming droids moving on silent servos, escalators rising from the harbor deck so high that he can't see where they end.

He feels under-dressed and messy-haired, but also enthralled.

"Captain Solo?" A bright silver droid greets them just as they clear the ship's undercarriage. It pauses, scans Poe, and clicks. "This is not a Wookiee."

"No," Han says. "Say, what's going on here?"

"Very short for a Wookiee," the droid continues.

"Not to mention pretty bald," Han says. "Answer the question, tin pot."

"I am WG-54, the welcome and greeting droid of Executive Calrissian, dispatched to welcome and greet his most honored guests."

Groaning, Han throws back his head.

The droid clasps Poe's hand and attempts to prick his index finger. 

"Hey!"

"Identification is imperative," the droid says. "Both for security and protocol requirements. You are not the Wookiee."

Poe digs out one of his more reliable fake identicards and hands it to the droid, then holds still for the facial scan. "Here."

"Bey Shara," it chirps. "Human, Vinivay citizen."

"That's right," Poe says, snatching back the card.

"Let's get this over with." Han slides his arm around Poe's shoulders. Come on, _Bey_."

The droid sweeps past the escalators, which disappoints Poe briefly until they step into a glittering crystalline lift that shoots them upward with a sickening, thrilling _swoosh_.

"What's going on?" he whispers when they step off the lift and WG-54 is well ahead of them down a long, spotless passage.

"Just play along," Han whispers back. "This guy's an old friend."

Generally, Poe knows, you don't groan loudly at the name of old friends, nor consider a visit with them something to "get over with".

The man who greets them at the end of the passage is one of the handsomest, most stylish creatures Poe has ever seen. Human, he sports an impeccable silver mustache and close-cropped silvering hair. His tunic and loose trousers look gossamer. He could be any age from a few decacycles older than Poe to one older than Han.

"Executive Calrissian," the droid says when Han and Poe have entered the broad room that looks out over a dark, still sea. "Captain Solo and --"

"Call me Lando," the Executive says, breaking from his hug of Han to take Poe by both shoulders. "This must be Ben. My, my. Growing up so fast."

Poe looks back at Han, a little desperately, since Calrissian is turning him round and round like a piece of jewelery or livestock. "I'm Bey."

"Bey's crewing for me," Han says firmly. "Picked him up awhile back."

Calrissian's hands slide up Poe's neck to cup his cheeks. His thumbs brush lightly over Poe's lower lip. Over Poe's head, Calrissian says to Han, "You crazy old degenerate, you did it, you really did."

He can feel Han behind him, so close, and even though Poe can take care of himself, he half-expects Han to slap Calrissian's hands away. 

But Calrissian firms his grip on Poe's face, even as he takes a step back to look him all over. He has rarely felt this naked while still fully clothed. 

"What did you do?" Poe tries to ask Han, but it's hard to talk with someone grabbing your whole face.

"Cabin boy," Calrissian answers for Han, smirking at him over Poe's head. There's decades of history slipping and sparking between them, so much that Poe's never, ever going to catch up. He lowers his voice as if he's confiding something, just for Poe's ear. "Always dared each other to find one. Never thought he'd do it."

"What can I say? Kid's multitalented. Damn irresistible." Han squeezes Poe's shoulder as he steps past him, smoothly hooking his arm through Calrissian's and turning him away. They pace together, heads inclined, conversation inaudible and secret. Every so often one of them laughs like a bark. Calrissian's cape swirls behind him.

"Multitalented, irresistible" isn't a compliment, not the way Han said it. Just a statement of fact, like the size of a parsec or the load capacity of the _Jaina_. Just an accurate description of the merchandise.

That used to be more than enough for Poe. More than he could expect, even.

It's a good reminder, however, of what he's really doing here. Of just why Han keeps him around.

Calrissian offers them use of his private apartments; Poe takes an actual bath for the first time he can remember since childhood. There's enough hot water to submerge his entire body in. The knots and aches of extended travel and hard work each throb, loosen, and start to vanish.

He meets Han back in the common passage, freshly scrubbed, wearing the Cyrillian tunics left out for him. Han, though clean and shaven, is still wearing his regular clothes. They look threadbare and grotty in the soft light.

"Lookin' good, kid," Han says, but it sounds slightly hollow. Maybe even cutting. "You like the high life, don't you? Could probably get a taste for this."

"Like feeling good," Poe says.

"Truer words."

Poe doesn't have a chance to reply before another droid hurries them along to dinner.

Calrissian serves them an enormous meal, more than enough to feed the two of them for several runs, then urges them to stay for just a bit longer. His environment is the definition of comfort and luxury; in this room of deeply upholstered surfaces, nothing is quite a couch or a table, just another spot to lie down. They ate reclining like Corellian aristocracy, which is a good thing considering just how full Poe feels. He probably couldn't stand if he wanted to. 

"Repairs don't take this long," Han says as droids clear the meal away. Another rolls in, bearing a black stone cube with three flexible hoses sprouting from the top. Steam, fragrant like flowers and salt, curls off the cube.

Poe is honestly scared that this is more food. 

"Around here, they call this savory, though it goes by many names," Calrissian explains, and waves off the droids. "From my personal collection."

"Repairs," Han puts in. "Lando, we do this dance every damn time --"

"Maybe if you didn't run your boats down to the gears, then come crawling into port on fumes, desperate for my help --"

"-- if you want me to visit, just say so."

"Savory's just a galactic legend," Poe says. "I didn't think it was real."

"It might as well be," Calrissian says to Poe. "Available in the smallest quantities, it fetches some fairly outstanding prices."

"The fuck is this?" Han asks. He turns the hose in his hands, scowling at nothing in particular.

The stories Poe has heard about savory's qualities could fill a couple datapads. So he simply says, "It's euphoria in a seed."

"Euphoria," Han repeats flatly.

"Bliss?" Poe tries. 

"I know what the word means," Han snaps.

"Elation," Poe can't help but add, making Han scowl more. "Rapturous joy. _Ecstasy_."

"Ecstasy, indeed. Something you seem to be more familiar with than I might have expected," Calrissian says to Han. "Given your choice of company."

"Yeah, yeah," Han says shortly. He seems to be deliberately rejecting every nice thing, every conversational opening, that Calrissian offers him.

"Bey, maybe you'd like to do the honors?" Calrissian gives him a dazzling smile. "You know, they say there's nothing like savory for making new friends, best friends."

It doesn't matter how many people Poe has worked with, and for, nor how many more he's merely flirted with on his own time: Calrissian puts them all to shame.

"Is that so?" Poe looks around the empty room. "Do you know someone can keep up with me?"

Surprised, Calrissian laughs long and hard, then says to Han, "Little mouthy brunettes always were your type."

Poe starts to protest -- he really is not short, not for human males -- but before he can, Han leans forward and grabs the nearest hose. "Let's light this up, shall we?"

He takes a deep pull off his hose and sits back, arms crossed, holding it in his lungs. Poe's about to elbow him, inform him that savory works quickly enough that you don't have to hold it. It isn't like one of those clumsy Outer Rim intoxicants, after all.

But before he can, Han's eyes are widening, his posture loosening, arms slipping to his sides. Calrissian's laughing at him, the steam spilling from his mouth and nose as he drops his hose and slides down the couch toward Han.

"You are the most ridiculous man," Calrissian says, so low, throaty and affectionate that Poe realizes it wasn't for him to hear. Just for Han. 

"What?" Han asks, bewildered, his cheeks flushed. Calrissian folds Han's fingers around the hose and guides it to his mouth.

Poe watches them while taking short, shallow puffs on his hose. He exhales the steam through his nose, like a hero in a holo-drama, a world-weary one desperate to feel something.

But Poe himself is feeling _everything_. The blood in his veins sings, just below his luminous skin. When he blinks, the world changes, brightens and intensifies, growing closer, embracing him. It takes forever to turn his head and when he does, there's Calrissian, half on top of Han, kissing him deeply, undoing his shirt and reaching inside.

Poe's mouth opens, closes. They're kissing slowly, then rapidly, then slower again. He hears himself moan when Calrissian pushes his cock into Han's grip; he's a little out of synch with Han's own moans, but not too much.

He wiggles in his seat, his hard-on pounding, pulling the rest of his skin more and more taut. Like an arrow or a spear, it's tugging him forward, onto stumbling feet, until he's collapsing next to Han, watching from as close as he can get.

He blinks, and he's as high as the ceiling, looking down at the three of them, watching Han take Calrissian's cock in his mouth, watching himself kiss Calrissian over Han's back. He rubs against Han's bare skin, his cock slipping and sliding in sweat and pre-come. He comes, hugging Han from behind, leaning forward to help lick Calrissian clean. Kissing Han, helping Calrissian suck him off; their noses and chins keep bumping until he takes possession of the throbbing head and Calrissian restricts himself to the root and balls.

Han's shouting, fucking his hips upward, dragging them both with him, and there's less than no time between his orgasm and the next tangle of limbs, rearranging gracefully like leaves in a breeze, until Poe's kneeling over Calrissian, holding himself open for someone's slicking fingers,

The light keeps changing in the room but time is holding its breath. The savory keeps them hard, keeps them touching, loath to lose any contact. Poe thinks that, later, he'll regret not being able to remember much more than petal-sized scraps, particularly of what Han looks like getting fucked by a looming, beautiful Calrissian, his every thrust a stroke of genius.

Nothing hurts, everything needs more. He's back on Han's lap, starting to sink down on his cock when Calrissian embraces him around the waist.

"Let's see what he can take."

Poe giggles, thinking of cargo capacity, cubic volumes and tariff charges, as something _more_ presses against his hole.

Han and Calrissian are talking around him, through him, folding Poe in half, splitting him like something ripe and ready, grunting with the effort until there are two, maybe a thousand, cocks up inside him and Poe's squirming to feel it all, his vision pounding red and pink, sunsets and sunrises over unknown horizons, a burning column rising and consuming his body. He gets one foot planted on the couch, so he can bounce, take more and deeper, both his hands braced on Han's shoulders as he shudders and begs. Calrissian pulls him up a little, then thrusts deeply enough that Han shouts, too, and Poe feels his entire body twist up, constricting around Han's orgasm, riding it with Calrissian buried balls-deep.

There's no air left, the skies are black with night everywhere, his collapse is a foregone conclusion. 

They sleep in a tangle. He stirs, once, when they slip out of him, then again when Han nearly breaks his nose as his arm flails against a dream.

Some time later, Poe wakes, bladder full and insistent. The room is as warm as ever, possibly warmer, given the orange light flooding through the wraparound windows. Naked, he finds a sink, relieves himself, splashes water over his face. At least he doesn't look quite as wrecked as he feels.

However perfect the savory felt, Poe doesn't want it ever again. This is several hangovers and three fistfights' worth of discomfort. Either he'll be on it for the rest of his life or he'll never touch it.

And there's no way he could afford even one hit, so sobriety it is.

His thoughts are sluggish and full of effort. He's at the window, hand on the sill, trying to decide if it's worth it to find his clothes, get dressed, then somehow make his way back to the ship. It all sounds so _difficult_.

Han joins him. He looks worse than Poe, gray-faced and haggard. There are dark, almost oily bags under his eyes and an exhaustion-sweat stink clinging to him, preceding him. When he speaks, he's hoarse as anything. "Hey, buddy."

Swaying, Poe knocks his shoulder gently against Han's in response. Everything is so hushed.

"How you feeling?"

"Wrecked. You?" Poe coughs, bringing up much more phlegm than he expected.

Han thumps him on the back, then keeps his hand there when Poe finishes coughing. He toys with the hair on the nape of Poe's neck, absently massages his shoulder, then sweeps his palm down, past Poe's waist, to his ass.

"Got a problem here," Han says, pulling Poe around, opening his robe. His erection is massive, almost painfully dark and erect. 

So that's what's going on. 

"-- don't think it's all out of my system," Han's still talking, muttering a little. He yelps a little when Poe reaches to touch it. "Fuck, _don't_."

"What do you want, then?"

Han spreads Poe's ass a little with his thumb, then looks away. "I think. I need to --"

"Yeah," Poe says. "I got you."

He's none too steady on his feet, but it doesn't take much effort to turn around, bend forward a little against the window, present himself.

"Thanks," Han is muttering against his ear, blanketing Poe's back, working slick fingers around his hole. "I owe you, believe me, I know --"

His skin is tender everywhere, but particularly there, patches flashing numb and then brightly sore. Whatever slick Calrissian uses, it was good stuff, anesthetic enough to allow for fun but not so much that he can't feel this. Poe pushes back against Han's hand, breathes through his mouth, lets his mind empty.

Orange light crashes on the water ahead of them, then there's the ghost of his own face reflected. He closes his eyes and, soon enough, there's the burning stretch as Han pushes in, giving out a blustering sigh, pulling Poe up on to the tips of his toes. Every little bruise and scratch across Poe's body lights up, stinging fresh, as sweat breaks and runs. He thumps his forehead against the window and takes the deep, jittery thrusts, feels them all the way in his gut and up his spine. They rattle his brain inside his skull and curl his fingers against the window.

Han's got both arms wrapped around him like Poe's about to jump and Han's holding on for dear life. He fucks deep and rough, teeth in Poe's shoulder, letting out gasps and whimpers that Poe's never heard from him before.

It hurts. It really hurts, and it feels good, too, hot and deep and overwhelming, and Poe doesn't have the brainpower just now to make sense of that. He pulls his right leg up, tucking it on the shallow sill. At the change in angle, Han bites harder, thrusting faster, and it sounds like he's talking. Apologizing, then demanding more, then apologizing again. _More—sorry—more—so good—sorrysorrysorry_. All without removing his mouth from Poe's flesh.

Poe pushes back, twists a little, trying to catch Han's mouth with his own, trying at least to make it good. It's too much, and he's got tears springing to his eyes, but he's still trying. 

He would swear that, when it's over, and he's back on two feet, come in his crack and between his thighs, that he sees the glitter of tears on Han's lashes before he turns and moves away. He's sure of it.

It was probably just the effort of it all.

When Calrissian wakes, there's more food. Poe takes another bath and takes advantage of the med-droid's services.

His head hurts. He's not sure it's ever going to stop hurting.

Calrissian takes Poe by the arm as they're saying their farewells. Han is stiff and grumpy. Calrissian seems to think this is simply the hangover and needles Han about it until Han stalks away, hunched over, shoulders up around his ears.

Calrissian presses two credit chips into Poe's palm. For professional services rendered, Poe assumes, which is a normal thing and shouldn't make his eyes hurt at the thought, but then Calrissian says, "Take care of him."

Poe lifts his chin. "Think I showed you I do last night."

"No," he says, intently, earnestly. "Not just that. He's no good on his own."

Thanks to the Cyrillian mechanics, the ship is in better shape than Poe's ever seen it. It's clean, too, and smells a little like mint. Han mutters something about overstepping boundaries and a man's ship being his fo'csle.

They don't talk. About Calrissian, Cyrillia, savory, any of it. Or anything else.

»«

It's strange, bearing the face of someone else's shame. You don't have any say in the matter. It's not as if you can change your own looks.

They talk after that, but only about ship's business.

Better, however, Poe decides, this way than Han seeing the shame in his own mirror. Poe knows there's nothing to be ashamed of; he can carry this, since Han can't.

He never does ask who Ben was.

»«

In the next lunar port, Han gets roaringly drunk, picks a fight with two Mandalorians, which he promptly loses spectacularly, then, with a swelling face, black eye and bleeding nose, tries to pick up a female Sullustan who is soliciting funds for refugees from the First Order.

Poe gives her everything in his pockets before dragging Han back to the ship. Over the course of their short walk, Han careens from loud and combative to morose and drooping.

"This is no good," he says when Poe drops him into his bunk and starts to help him undress. Han bats away his hands. "I'm no good. No good."

"Shut up," Poe tells him. He loosens Han's pants, then kneels to get one boot off.

"Only like me 'cause I pay you," Han mutters.

"Shut. Up."

"That's all right, that's okay. I'm no good for anyone. Only cocksucking punks getting paid to be here can stand to be around me."

Poe's face and chest feel so hot, so suddenly, that he has to grab the edge of Han's bunk and close his burning eyes for a second.

"I'll get you the medikit," he finally says, standing up, only to knock the back of his head on the top bunk. He hasn't done this since he first came aboard.

Han's laughing at him. Maybe that's better than what he has been saying, but not much.

"All my fault," Han says when Poe returns with the cold pack and anaesthetic gel. "You'd be so much better off without me. Everyone is."

"Uh-huh," Poe replies. He helps Han hold the cold pack against his worse eye. Their fingers interlace briefly before Poe snatches his hand away.

"I knew a Jedi once," Han says suddenly. "I ever tell you that? Best of the galaxy, brighter'n all the stars put together, and he called me his friend."

"Wonderful," Poe says. There haven't been any Jedi for years and years. Everyone knows that. If Han isn't flat-out lying, then some old Jedi must have befriended a toddler. "That sounds like fun."

Han peers up at him. Blood has crusted around his nostrils and his lip is split. "Breaks my heart."

"The Jedi?"

Han lies back, turning his face to the wall. "Everything."

»«

When they pick up Chewbacca a quarter cycle later, nothing much changes, except that Han stops fucking him entirely. Further, he seems to feel the need to explain why, which is uncharacteristic, to say the least.

"Chewie doesn't take well to..."

Shrugging, holding up his hand, eager to get this over with, Poe interrupts him. "I get it. I'll watch it. Tone it down."

Han cocks one eyebrow. "What did you think I was going to say?"

"Queers," Poe replies. "Some species don't like it."

He ought to be used to Han laughing at him by now. Not only does Han mock the entire galaxy, he seems to interact best with people by poking fun at them mercilessly. "Chewie doesn't care about that, kid. No, Wookiees just can't accept infidelity."

Poe tries, fails, tries again to parse that. 

Han adds, musingly, "'Can't accept' is a pretty nice way of putting it, in fact. I've seen some revenge attacks that'd leave you sleepless for the rest of your natural life."

He sounds almost proud, definitely impressed, by that fact.

"So I shouldn't sleep around?" Poe asks, still trying to follow. Why would a Wookiee he just met care what he gets up to on his own time? 

Han shakes his head. "What? No, do what you want. You better believe I want to hear about _all_ your conquests, heartbreaker."

Usually, Poe would get puffed up by that, but he's still stuck in incomprehension. "The fuck are you talking about, then?"

"Wookiees have a pretty extensive understanding of family and loyalty," Han says. "Literally Naboovian in its complications. But disloyalty is clear as anything. Chewie wouldn't like it if he figured out what I've been getting up to."

"You're married?"

"Yeah, kid." Han turns around to fiddle with a control panel that doesn't need attention. "Didn't I mention that?"

Of course you didn't, Poe wants to say but doesn't. Why his stomach's twisting sick and sour, like he swallowed those words, he couldn't say. "You and Chewie."

When Han laughs now, it's delighted. He turns around, clapping his hands. "He should be so lucky! No, got a wife on Coruscant." He squints into the middle distance, laughter long gone. "Maybe not Coruscant any longer. She moves around quite a bit these days."

»«

Poe knows a few curses in Shyriiwook, but depends on Han to interpret everything Chewie says.

It's not an optimal set-up, particularly when he's alone with Chewie in the cargo hold. Or when Han doesn't feel like communicating.

"That's not true!" Han snaps. "I don't swagger, so I don't know what you're talking about."

They're waiting for a currency trader on Ammuud when Chewie and Han start arguing about Poe.

"What did he say?" Poe asks.

"Nothing."

Chewie shakes his head and groans.

"Yes, he did," Poe says. "You did, didn't you?"

Nodding, Chewie says something harsh and brief.

"Fine." Han swallows and looks away. "He says I made you into a miniature version of me. Dress alike --"

"I like how you dress," Poe says.

Han's brows jump up and he grins. "Thanks, kid. Sweet of you."

Chewie says something, fairly insistently. Han grimaces.

"What?" Poe asks.

"Oh, there's more. You dress like me," Han says, "and, I quote, 'even swagger like my sad human hips try to do'. Which is _real_ funny --" he turns to Chewie and speaks directly to him. "-- considering I do not, and never did, never will, swagger."

Poe frowns. "I just walk. I didn't know it looked like anything."

Grumbling, Chewie sighs and pats Poe's hand with his rough paw.

"Oh, no, on _you_ , apparently, it looks good," Han says sullenly. "He likes you. Says you've got panache."

"Well, that's a relief," Poe says as Han mutters about not knowing Wookiees had even heard of 'panache'. Poe looks up at Chewie, into those kind, bottomless eyes. "I like you, too. Thanks."

His response is soft, accompanied a small tilt of the head. Poe grins up at him.

"He says you're welcome," Han says wearily. "And, furthermore and much more importantly, that you could do lots better than us." He leans forward, pointing at Chewie, nearly poking him in the chest. "Don't you think I've told him that?"

»«

They're right. Now that Chewie is back, it's impossible to ignore just how extraneous Poe is. Anyone could help with cargo or organize the freeze-dried food supplies, and there are droids who could do it for the cost of power.

Watching the two of them work together, as much as it reminds him that he doesn't belong here, feels almost like a gift. They move in unison, despite the rank difference in height and build; they communicate in little more than single words or phrases, yet understand each other immediately.

It almost makes him ache sometimes. He can't help but wonder how they got like this, if he's ever going to find something similar. He can't help but notice, too, that he never had anything remotely close to this, no matter what he thought at the time.

Poe hasn't ever seen two people work so well together. Somehow they can continue an argument about who'd win in a fight of Lizard Warrior versus spacer, while avoiding three security frigates and dodging fire from a pirate cruiser, escape into hyperspace, and continue arguing well past dinner.

Poe needs to fly, now more than ever.

»«

"Chewie says you're a hell of a pilot," Calrissian tells him over holo-call. "That's all I need to know."

»«

Poe flies for almost two cycles with Calrissian's merchant fleet. It's good work, if incredibly boring. They stick to the main hyper routes, and get dinged if they go off-course without authorization. There's a whole team of mechanics to handle any little problem that might come up, so the pilots can concentrate on what they do best. (Calrissian's words, there. He's nothing if not a master of gladhanding and flattery. Poe learns a lot about interpersonal relations from him.)

Poe's ship is the newest generation of corvette, more maneuverable even than most starfighters. He has a flat he hardly ever sees in Cyrillian Centre, paid for by the executive, stocked with enough food to see a large family through a famine.

He sees Krey every so often, but she's busier than ever these days. The good hunting is in the Outer Rim and Unknown Territories.

He sees Han and Chewie once, unexpectedly, on a pretty little moon the near side of the Western Reaches. They look the same as ever (Han maybe grayer, but it's hard to tell in the bad light of the chophouse); they're flying a huge freighter these days, easily enough to carry a couple comets with room to spare.

The meeting is awkward, though perhaps not as bad as it might have been. Chewie has a new niece, so most of Poe's time is taken up with admiring datapad slides and a couple holos of a very furry, very cute little Wookiee baby doing things like snapping tree limbs and blowing spit bubbles that are themselves bigger than any human baby.

When Chewie heads to the buffet to get more ribs, Han cocks an eyebrow and kicks Poe under the table. "The high life suits you, kid."

Poe hasn't been a kid for a long time, but he lets it slide. He shoots his cuffs, then pinches the crease in his trousers. "Just like to feel good."

"You always did feel good," Han says. 

Coming from anyone else, that could sound lascivious. Coming from Han most times, it would, too. But this time, he just sounds gentle. Maybe rueful.

There are so many things that Poe could tell him, that he's planned to say, but Poe just grins and refills Han's drink. "To the _Jaina_."

Han barely lifts his cup, but nods deliberately.

Poe has to leave first. Calrissian's schedules are set in stone and not to be messed with for love, money, death or dismemberment. He hugs Chewie, hard, realizing how much he misses that sap-sweet scent of Wookiee fur, then goes to shake Han's hand.

Han pulls him into a hug, mouth on Poe's ear, free hand shoving something into Poe's back pocket. "Use this if you ever need help. Skies are getting iffy out there."

Han's body is every bit as strong and warm as it used to be. That thought, the complete sense memory it conjures up, rattles Poe hard, leaves him nearly breathless.

He doesn't let himself look at what's in his pocket until he's back home. It's a flat, palm-sized identichip, embossed with the Senate coat of arms and a barcode denoting the committee for military intelligence. 

With something like this, he could bypass any tariff station or customs house in the galaxy, haul tonnes of contraband without interference, go about his merry way for the rest of his career. 

This is the sort of thing that a smuggler like Han would kill to get his hands on, and kill again to keep. Poe cannot, for the life of him, understand why Han would give it up.

Especially these days. 

Han's right, after all. The skies -- not the oldest and most reliable hyper-lanes, not yet, but places farther out -- _are_ getting iffy. Krey has several tales of scrapes with Imperial remnants, whackjobs out to resurrect their authoritarian ideals. A couple inhabited moons, even three or four planets (accounts vary), have come under First Order control. Unofficially, of course, but everyone knows that is a legalistic nicety. It'll be official, sooner or later.

Poe tucks the card into his flight suit along with identicard and emergency medikit and goes back to work. There's little to worry about in the immediate future. Just another boring run out to Bespin and back, escorting mining equipment there and tourist cruisers back. 

He's been doing some stunt flying on his off-days, in order to keep sharp. Sometimes he thinks he does it to remember why he ever wanted to fly in the first place. Without that practice, he fully expects to fall asleep on one of these routine runs and never wake up.

A while back, Calrissian installed state-of-the-art astromech droids in all the ships. Poe and the other pilots suspect this is more a publicity stunt than anything actively useful. Probably Lando did a deal with the droid corporation, or invested in it, so now Poe gets to fly with a rotund, chirping advertisement.

Sometimes that chatterbox is the only thing keeping him awake.

»«

He rents a small one-man cruiser during his next scheduled furlough. He can afford it; he probably could, if he felt like going to the trouble, afford to _buy_ a cruiser. A secondhand one, a waste of thousands of credits, to be sure, but a possibility nonetheless.

The navicomputer on the cruiser is clunkier than his work ship, but he likes the chance to do some calculations himself, make some decisions, actually get to _participate_ in the voyage. At work, sometimes, he has to shove away the thought that he's an overpaid babysitter or an underqualified security guard for Calrissian's very significant investments. In another several years, there probably won't be any pilots. Just the droids. 

He comes out of hyperspace nearly at the far edge of the Mid Rim territories. He plans to go where his fancy takes him, hop from moon to moon, maybe visit Naboo or some other tourist trap. Get a tan, get laid, the usual.

Those plans, nebulous as they are, vanish as soon the jump is complete. 

Rather than the sweet expanse of glittering, empty dark he's been expecting, he lands in the middle of a fire fight. 

An old cargo freighter, modified into what looks like a colony ship, is dragging itself away from a pair of sleek, black starfighters. They're not any model Poe has ever seen, and he makes it a point to keep up on the industry. The colony ship is listing badly and spilling tiles as it goes. One starfighter hangs back while the other gives chase, firing at the already half-wrecked hull. New holes vent atmosphere in white and pink plumes.

They are like a pair of plains panthers, still tormenting a mortally wounded Bantha, just for the sick fun of it.

Poe's cruiser has no weapons beyond some rudimentary defensive systems, but he has to do something. There's just enough room so he can slip between the colony ship and the fighter. Once he redirects his puny shields, they can bounce the ion blasts back at the fighter's mate. He tries that maneuver once, sending the one fighter spinning end over end. But the other one's still firing, and getting closer.

Its lines are sharp as blades; somehow it looks darker and blacker than the space around them. Poe banks his cruiser hard starboard, dropping out of range before roaring back to catch the fighter from behind.

He misses that damn droid for the first time; he needs four hands, at least, to re-tilt his shields and fire his defensive guns. He hopes for a kiss shot off the fighter's shields and back again from his own into that sweet open spot where wing pierces body. If he had the droid, its angle calculations and deployment would take no time at all. He'd be able to concentrate on firing, then almost simultaneously veering off high.

His plan is great but it fails. 

The starfighter is too quick and Poe does _not_ have four arms and a droid's calculating genius. He gets one shot in before the starfighter cuts low out of range. A security alert signal thuds onto the cruiser's tail just before the starfighter flickers out of sight into hyperspace.

He's dead in space, floating loose. Han would know how to disengage the security alert signal, but Poe doesn't. Han would also know not to stick his nose in where it doesn't belong and try to take on two starfighters with a damn pleasure ship. Thanks to the sec-alert, now he has a restraining bolt on the hyperdrive and his comms have been killed.

All he can do is wait.

He failed, and yet he hasn't felt this exhilarated in long time. Sweat tingles all over his body and the bio-sensors beep about his elevated respiration. He's panting, can't stop grinning.

When the next security frigate sweep comes through, he tries to make contact and explain the situation. Whatever the signal says, however, means an EMP dart hits his nose, knocking out everything but basic life support.

Not that he notices, because it knocks him out, too.

»«

He wakes in an interrogation cell. On the floor, on his back. As soon as his eyes adjust to the dark, an alarm sounds. The red light overhead comes on and the featureless voice says: "Who are you?"

It repeats itself in three more languages.

These cells are the same the galaxy over. It's been cycles since Poe was in one, but they never change. They'll outlast every civilization. When the entire galaxy slides into the central void, these cells will remain behind, a network of blank cages suspended in empty space.

"Where am I?" Poe demands. "Tell me where I am."

"You possess the identichip of Bey Shara. The genetic material of Poe Dameron. And the Senate courier chip of General Organa Solo. So I ask you again: who are you?"

"General who?" He's sure he misheard that name. That, or it's a coincidence. There can only be so many syllabic combinations in Basic.

The floor sizzles with a warning jolt of electricity. "Do not waste our time feigning ignorance."

He knows he should just answer the questions. The more you obey, the easier it is. 

Poe can't do that. Maybe it's just his lifelong stubbornness, which used to earn him boxes on the ear, then blaster shafts across his ass. Maybe it's that long-hidden deep, passionate love of liberty, something Krey still teases him about.

Maybe he's like Han and he's just ornery.

"Tell me where I am."

He takes the jolt.

"Okay, tell me what I did."

"Unauthorized aggression committed against nonviolent monastic travelers."

The more he asks, the less he understands. There's a lesson in there, probably. _"What?"_

"Knights of Ren, New Republic Nonprofit, Spiritual Division, Sub-division Monastic Orders, Any/All Gender-Species. En route to sacred site, encountered unprovoked and highly destructive fire from cruiser DL-7812, registered to Come Fly With Us!!, Cyrillian Centre, rented to Dameron, Poe, three diurns past."

"I attacked monks? Just like that?" None of this makes any sense. He knows what happened.

"You confess?"

He scrambles to his feet, banging on the walls of the cell. "No, I don't confess! I'm asking for clarification! This is Qormot shit --" 

The next jolt is the strongest yet, tossing him across the cell. When he lands, another rocks him back onto his stomach. He's unconscious for whatever comes after that. The red light burns on behind his lids.

»«

"Did some fast talking, made a few deals, paid a fairly outrageous bond, and here we are." Han gestures to indicate the bunkroom of yet another old freighter. "You're welcome, by the way."

Poe drinks down the rejuviliquid and tries to sit up. His head is not happy about that and tries to stay on the thin pillow. "Thanks. But how did you know where I was?"

Han studies his nails with obvious casualness, then recrosses his legs and leans back. "I have connections, you know."

"Yeah, I heard, _General_."

Han's eyebrows jump at that and he covers his surprise very badly. "Get some sleep, kid. We'll be there soon enough."

"Where are you going?"

"Taking you home," Han says over his shoulder, just before the door rattles closed.

»«

He was telling half the truth. He does take Poe to someone's home -- his wife's, Poe thinks, but that's just supposition -- but that's only a stop on the way to some moon called D'Qar. Chewie's on Cyrillia, getting Poe's things.

The home is a single story tall, white rock and light wood, open everywhere to the sky and the surrounding plains. This is more like the set of a holo-romo than anyone's house.

"Part of that bond," Han admits, while they wait in the foyer, "may have involved signing you up for military service."

 _"What?"_

"Don't worry about it," Han says breezily. "It's good work. You'll be flying right away. It's actually with..." He looks around and lowers his voice dramatically. "The Resistance."

"There's no such thing," Poe points out.

"There is and there isn't," Han replies. He's enjoying all of this entirely too much; he can't quite hide his grin or dampen the amused tone to his voice.

"Han, what did you _do_?" Poe asks. He's about a second away from grabbing Han by the shirt and shaking him until the full truth falls out.

"If I had a credit for every time I've said that exact thing," a female voice says from behind the curtain. It moves aside on a soundless track and a small, beautiful woman steps into the foyer. Human, with bearing every bit as regal as Krey's. She puts her hands on her hips. "I would be _very_ rich indeed."

"Leia," Han says, scrambling to his feet, pulling Poe up with him.

"Han."

Han elbows Poe, but Poe doesn't know why. Han says, again, "Leia."

"Who's this very wise and equally handsome young man you have in tow?" She cocks her head and now she's looking right at Poe. The weight of her attention is nearly palpable. Poe finds himself standing up straighter, trying to will his hair into place. He's not sure what to do with his hands. He wants her to smile at him for a good long time.

"Poe Dameron, ma'am." He offers her his hand, hoping that wherever they are, that custom isn't offensive. "I used to work for Han."

She's smiling so broadly that her eyes have nearly disappeared. She clasps his hand between both of hers, her touch warm and soft and strong all at once. "And you lived to tell the tale without killing him? Impressive."

"It was close, sometimes," Poe says. It's the truth, after all.

"Hey," Han says faintly. They turn together to look at him. He meets their gaze with a quick gulp, then puts on his half-smirk. "Thought you might get along. Should've listened to my instincts and run while I had a head start."

When Leia releases Poe's hand, he barely manages to resist the urge to press it to his mouth. She winks at him, as if she knows exactly what he's thinking, then links her arms through Poe's and Han's to guide them outside to the garden. The border between house and garden is unclear; spaces seem to shift and blur into each other here. There aren't walls, only passages.

The longer he spends with her, the less Poe understands how Han could have ever left. (Not that he can understand how they would ever have met in the first place.) She gives them dinner under a tent, small dishes spread out over a broad, low table. She sits between them on the soft ground, leaning back on one arm, her legs tucked up under her, and pours them drinks. 

She's funny, and warm, and she knows every single one of Han's sore points.

When Poe observes as much, Leia laughs. She squeezes his knee, drawing herself closer, then leaves her hand there, draped over his thigh. "He has so many, he makes it easy."

"I'm a complicated guy," Han insists. "I've got depth."

That's true, too, but the last thing Poe wants to think about is the shitty times, Han's moods, the sodden misery and self-pity. 

Dusk has gathered in the corners of the garden and luminescent dragonflies are dive-bombing the tent's ceiling. Poe has had a bit too much Corellian brandy; it's pooling warmly in his belly. He can't stop smiling. When he covers Leia's hand with his own, shifting it higher on his thigh, she tips against his shoulder and rests there.

"For instance, as an example, just off the top of my head," Han continues, clearing his throat theatrically. "A lot of men might take exception to seeing their wife feeling up --"

"Their ex?" Leia suggests. 

Han fakes a laugh, seemingly as surprised as Poe. "I was going to say 'a younger guy', but --"

Poe bites his lower lip when Leia's nails dig into the meat of his inner thigh. She spreads her fingers and flexes them against him..

"-- yeah, fine," Han says after peering at them both. He runs his hand through his hair. "That works, too."

"I'm not his ex," Poe says. It hurts, it's embarrassing in an obscure way he can't quite name. He has, however, a strong, if deeply uncanny, sense that he can't lie to Leia, not even by omission. 

She kisses his neck, openmouthed, as she slips her arm around his waist. She whispers, "It's all right."

Han coughs again, then drinks down the rest of the brandy in the carafe. When he puts it down, it catches the table edge and falls, rolling away into the dark.

Poe turns to face her. "No, it's just. Not true."

Leia touches his cheek, thumb under his chin, moving him around, dark eyes tracking his. She kisses him then, full and deep, and eases him onto his back.

"Right, well," Han says. "I'll just see myself out, then."

Leia braces one small hand on Poe's chest and pushes herself up to address Han. "Don't be an idiot." She looks down at Poe, some hair coming loose around her face. "That goes for you, too."

"Yes, ma'am," Poe says. "I promise."

She smiles at him, so gently it's almost painful, and closes her fingers in his shirt, tugging it up, then stroking the exposed skin across his stomach. It's all he can do not to shove up against her and demand more, more, more.

"But of course, your most exalted reverence-ness," Han says, kicking his legs out and _rolling_ around the corner of the table to Poe's other side. "Anything you say, your wish is my command, et cetera, et cetera."

"Would you just. Shut up," she says and leans over Poe, resting her hand right the hollow of his abdomen where his trousers start, to kiss Han.

Poe watches them, shivering a little under their touch -- Han's palm sweeps up his chest, strokes his throat while Leia caresses his belly -- pushing up to his elbows to get a better view. Their kiss is indescribable; he doesn't know how long they were married, but right now it's hard to imagine them ever _not_ kissing. She's so much smaller, more delicate, than Han, yet he bends for her, arching his back, murmuring into her red, swollen mouth.

Poe rubs the heel of his hand against his erection, just to show it who's boss, remind it to be patient.

But Leia's breasts are exposed now, golden in the low light, nipples hard, and Han wets his thumb on Poe's teeth before running it against one nipple, then the other. Leia sags against him, turning to look at Poe, smiling at him as she slips her hand all the way into his trousers to stroke him.

He bites his lip. Fumbles with his other hand into Han's lap and finds him already nearly all the way hard, cock out, waiting. He shoves up into Leia's grasp, his head falling back dizzily, and pulls at Han. He knows the twist of foreskin, that triple-branched vein down the side, with his fingertips, tongue, every bit of him. He turns on his side, careful not to dislodge Leia, whispering apologies just in case, and buries his face in Han's lap.

Han bellows out a laugh, sounding surprised, delighted. One palm lands heavy on Poe's head. 

Leia says something softly, wrapping herself around Poe from behind, firming and quickening her grip. She kisses the side of his face, whispers in his ear, tells him how nice he looks. He's responding, fucking her hand good and fast as he hollows his cheeks and pushes up on one arm to take Han down his throat.

"Oh, _kid_ ," Han's saying, wrapping his arm around Poe, around Leia, shuddering beneath them.

She's working her hips against Poe's ass now, grinding against him, all but fucking him as she tugs him fast and hard. Her chin digs against his neck, low moans running into his skin. When Han does come, her tongue darts out, helps Poe clean the mess off Han, then kisses his face clean. 

Just a touch, her fingertips against the base of his throat, and she tips Poe onto his back again. Han's leaning in, groaning, as she swings her leg over Poe, rubbing against the head of his cock until Poe grabs her hips and arches up to meet her. He can feel the heat radiating off her, the slick, slick wet waiting for him. But she's immobile for another moment, head tipped back, face hidden, chin sharp against the sky. She's waiting for something, but he doesn't think it's from him.

"Do it," Han says, low and rough, collapsed back on one elbow, watching them. " _Leia_ , beauty, please --"

She looks down at Poe, her hands closing on his shoulders, and works herself down so slowly he grunts a couple times in frustration before she's done. Han's back up on his knees, kissing her with his arm around her waist so she's turned nearly 45 degrees while she rides Poe, canting up and down, finishing each downward push with a side-to-side twitching grind that sends stars across his vision.

Han works his hand over her mound, down between them, while Poe holds her down on him by the hips and pushes up and up. They get a rough, decent rhythm going, inside and out, Han occasionally petting the base of Poe's cock when she rises. Too soon, she comes, again and again, fluttering and then crashing around him, sagging in Han's arms, her face red, the flush spilling down her chest.

She clutches at Han, curling into him, suddenly tiny, as he lifts her up, away. He holds her against his chest with his head bent into her shoulder. Poe's cock is cold-hot now, exposed, raw.

This was what she was waiting for, Poe thinks. They might as well be alone in the galaxy, holding so tight, a single whole.

Poe rolls his head in frustration against the grass, grinding his teeth. His balls ache. When he closes his eyes, he almost feels like he's back in the cruiser, falling through black space, getting colder.

He hears the sound of Leia's voice, but it's so low, so private, that even this close, he doesn't know what she's saying. But Han's grumble is unmistakable, even as it's cut off by the syrupy sound of another kiss.

"C'mon," Han says, standing over him, offering a hand up. "The lady suggests that I service you, which I was going to do anyway, but it's too damn cold out here. I'd like the warmth and comfort of an actual bed."

Poe sways a little as Han pulls him up. He holds his trousers up with one hand; he would fix his hair with the other, but Han hasn't released it, and doesn't, not until they're inside a white room that's mostly bed.

Poe tries to look over his shoulder, around, but Leia's nowhere to be seen.

And then he forgets about that, and everything else, when he's on the edge of the sleeping platform and Han's on his knees, pushing Poe up into the warm, silky linens, tugging down his pants. He's mouthing the head of Poe's dick as gentle as morning breezes as his hands push Poe's thighs apart, thumbs slicking his hole. 

Poe is so far gone. It doesn't take much for him to cry out, thrash, bear down on the finger inside him. His cock wrenches and shoots, but his balls feel like they're still getting tighter. And he's lying there, panting, sweaty, while Han circles another fingertip and works it inside. When Poe raises his head and looks down, Han glances up, smirking. A couple droplets of come decorate his eyebrow.

Leia's back, hair loose over her shoulders. She murmurs apologetically about having to take a call as she lies down, pulling Poe into her lap before kissing him. He feels like he's melting against her, into the bed, as Han finger-fucks him, slow and warm, so slow that he almost dozes amid the pleasure. By the time they turn him over, Han pulling him up onto his knees, Leia holding his face against her lap, Poe is somehow both drowsy and aroused, loose and warm but sharpening again with need, too.

Leia opens her legs, skirts slipping down her thighs, and lifts her hips to his mouth just as Poe pushes his own up to meet Han's cock. Han is a little too impatient, like always, the blunt pressure nudging just slightly too fast until heat bursts and spreads, and then he's sinking inside Poe, pushing him forward against into Leia. Her folds are swollen, throbbing against his tongue, and her clit erect, straining, for his touch. He thinks he can taste himself here, maybe Han, too. She moans when he takes her bottom to top with the broad flat of his tongue, sucking down the hot, sweet flavor of her; she shudders and shouts when he works at her clit, tugging it, tongue teasing the tendons at its root.

Poe is doubled, shared between them, open mouth and open ass; Han hauls him back, Leia pulls him closer. The pleasure's different but additive, until his head is swimming with heat and overstimulation, the drag against his prostate and the welling strength of her around his tongue.

Han's telling him what to do. "Speaking from long experience --"

"Shut up," she tells him.

His nails dig into Poe's hips. "I'm simply pointing out that he might benefit from my years of research, trial, and error."

Poe's chin is riding the bed, catching his stubble, while Leia's inner lips hug his mouth and nose. He'd gladly smother here, something which has begun to feel like a distinct possibility.

But he has to lift his head; Leia's hands fall to his shoulders as he turns enough to breathe and speak. "Man, I know what I'm doing. Not exactly new to this."

Han's thrusts speed up. Poe's face bounces a few times off Leia's leg. "I didn't say you were. What I _said_ , I believe, is that I could teach you a thing or two. And I can."

Leia's cupping Poe's jaw, thumbs stroking his lower lip. Her eyes are shadowed as she looks down at him. He feels _studied_. "He's doing very well."

Poe blinks slowly, rolling his lips together, then smiles gratefully. He bends back between her thighs, licking his way back to the center. He keeps that simple, taste and tease, because Han's grind inside him is ramping higher, and hotter, filling him past bursting, and he's going to come, open mouthed, crying, tongue inside Leia.

»«

At the foot of the sleeping platform, Han sleeps on his back, arms and legs akimbo, mouth open, snoring loudly. He looks like he was dropped from a great height; he has one, unlaced, boot on, but otherwise is entirely naked. The silvery hair on his chest spreads down over his belly, which is softer than when Poe knew him, and curls around the base of his soft, dark cock.

Poe's been sitting here, holding one leg bent against his chest, chin planted on his knee, for a long while now, watching him sleep.

Leia slips her arm around Poe's back. "He's a difficult man to love."

Poe doesn't say anything. He can't.

"Easy to fall for, of course." She brushes Poe's hair back and presses her cheek against his. "But hard to keep."

"Everyone goes," Poe says.

"He say that?"

"Yes."

"Well." He feels her swallow against his skin. "He's wrong. He does his best to make it come true, but he's still wrong."

Holding still, breathing together, they contemplate the mess in front of them. Eventually, Leia pats Poe fondly, a little absently, then gets out of bed, making for the bath.

»«

Before they leave, running late as usual, Han offers Leia a lift.

She's at a wide desk stacked with datapads and small holo projectors. Fully dressed, pulled back together into the elegant, self-contained woman he met last night, she barely looks up. "I've booked an actual, functioning shuttle, with a bonded and insured professional, thank you."

"Right." Han shifts from foot to foot, boot leather creaking. He assumes that airy, sullen tone he uses when he's especially insulted. "Well. Be seeing you, then. Whenever you feel like it next, of course. Wouldn't want to intrude."

She laughs at that, shoulders lifting and falling. "No, you never _want_ to. You just do."

Poe steps backward into the passage, seeking the front door. Their argument feels, somehow, far more intimate than watching them fuck.

Han is angry when he joins Poe, walking double-time to his ship, jaw set and eyes narrowed. Poe knows that look, the posture, the bigger, rougher gestures that catch and bang whatever happens to be in their way. What's strange is that Poe _remembers_ how this used to make him feel -- twitchy, worried, all too ready to anticipate the worst -- but it's only a memory. A strong one, to be sure, but nothing about it intrudes on how he feels now.

Now, he just buckles in and puts his head back, ready to sleep during the short hop to D'Qar.

So he's going to join the Resistance. At the very least, it cannot possibly be as boring as flying for Lando.

»«

D'Qar looks nicer than Poe had been expecting. When you hear stories about the Resistance, they're usually outrageous tales about mad guerrillas liberating forest people who'd rather stay enslaved, ideologues flying around in jury-rigged starfighters that have a tendency to backfire and kill their pilots.

But they land in an open field at the foot of gently undulating forest. The hangar is filled with decent-looking X-Wings and mechanics who look like they know what they're doing.

Chewie meets them carrying a sack bulging with odd angles. His greeting is longer than usual, less agonized.

"Lando says you're fired," Han translates. "But sends you a present anyway."

Chewie pushes the sack into Poe's arms. He looks inside and finds the several disassembled parts of his astromech, BB-8. Its tilting headpiece blinks at him excitedly.

"It tried to quit when your firing went through," Han adds. "Lando says it gets to be your problem now."

Poe's never heard of a droid _quitting_. He doesn't think anyone has.

He's distracted from that question, however, by the fact that Han seems pretty familiar with this base. He shows Poe the barracks, even his bunk, already stocked by Chewie with civilian clothes and olive-drab uniform.

"I have to wear this?" he asks, poking the uniform.

Han's already on his way out the door. "Yeah, and get that hair of yours buzzed all the way off."

Poe touches the back of his head protectively. His thumb brushes a hickey at the base of his neck from last night, making warmth gather and pool in his gut.

Despite his confidence here, Han also seems anxious to take his leave pretty quickly. "They're doing the whole big induction ceremony at sundown," he tells Poe at the gangplank to the freighter. "Don't miss it. There's probably a good meal to be had afterward." 

"What ceremony?" Poe asks.

Han shrugs, circling his hand impatiently. "You know, welcome to the Resistance, ours is a noble cause, down with tyranny, here're your orders, most of you will be dead within a year."

This is really happening. 

"But you're not staying?"

Han squints upward, reaching to tighten a bolt or something. "Nah, kiddo, you know how it is."

"Yeah," Poe says, hands on his hips, grinning. "You're not my father."

When he looks back down, Han's face is blank, mouth a firm line. "Yeah, sure. That, too."

"Right, well. Thanks for the ride." Poe's still smiling, but he doesn't know why. 

He spends the rest of the afternoon in the barracks, putting BB-8 back together. He's got it almost all the way done when he finds another servo at the bottom of the sack. Hell if he knows where it goes.

He might be in over his head.

»«

The new pilot class is lined up in front of two X-Wings, the two that, so far as Poe can tell, are in the best shape and will look presentable in press materials. The uniform they're all wearing isn't as dumb as Poe had figured; it's not even as sharp as the one he had to wear for Calrissian. That one was much better tailored.

They didn't shave his head, didn't even mention it. Han's just an asshole sometimes.

Those, like him, who didn't go through the academy got a crash course in discipline: They've been told to stand up straight and keep their eyes ahead. Poe figures that isn't really a secret so much as the default state for any decent pilot. 

A cluster of senior officers move down the line of new pilots, saluting them, pinning their ranks to their chest, then shaking their hands.

His turn comes. BB-8 bumps against Poe's calves, trying to see. A Riorian pins a ribbon to his chest before stepping back, and like a good pilot, Poe remains still and calm when _Leia_ steps forward to welcome him aboard. 

She clasps his hand and nods shortly, but her eyes crinkle up. Her hands are warm and softer than anything.

"Welcome," she says, "and thank you."

"Can't wait to get up there," he tells her.


End file.
